


How painfully ordinary

by SoonerOrLater



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death References, Family Death, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoonerOrLater/pseuds/SoonerOrLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets a phonecall from his brother early in the morning, John knows whatever it is can't be good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Phone Rang

The phone rang loud and shrill piercing the silence of Baker Street at 6.30 in the morning.

John sighed and pressed answer, assuming it was a call from the agency asking him to go to a different surgery or cancelling his day’s work.

‘Hello’ he said

‘John.’ Mycroft’s clipped tones cut into his ear. ‘Could you kindly bring my brother to the telephone?’

‘You rang my phone.’ John said evenly, ‘He’s still asleep’

‘That is precisely why I dialled your number. Could you please wake him and bring him to the phone. It is.’ John heard an intake of breath. ‘Imperative.’ Mycroft finished.

‘You want me to wake your brother?’ John asked incredulous.

‘I take your point John but it is of vital importance.’ An edge crept into Mycroft’s voice, different to his usual commanding presence which made John obey, much like the edge to an Officer’s voice when a command needed to be followed. He sighed, pressed hold and made his way to Sherlock’s closed door.

He braced himself before knocking, waking a sleeping Sherlock without a case was dangerous as he’d inadvertently found out soon after moving in. Waking him for a phone call from his brother was possibly close to suicidal something told him however that ignoring Mycroft’s commands had similar consequences. He sighed the perils of being caught between the Holmes brothers was tiresome at best, more so at 6.30 in the morning.

His first knock to the door went unacknowledged. He tried again.

‘Sherlock’ he said forcefully but not loudly, shouting he also knew would get him nowhere; still nothing.

John sighed again and opened the door; Sherlock’s blatant disregard for personal space something he had been forced to adopt himself in order to accomplish things like rescuing vital household items from destruction and often the detective himself.

In the grey darkness of Sherlock’s room he was surprised to find the man still asleep, curled on his side blankets wrung tightly around him so that he looked impossibly small and peaceful. John glanced at the bedside table and frowned, amongst the clutter was a small pill bottle John recognised instantly-sleeping pills, his sleeping pills to be exact. He still occasionally used them in the quiet times between cases when memories and nightmares returned, but he hadn’t noticed they were missing, which probably meant Sherlock had stolen them recently. He was troubled at the thought Sherlock would use medication to cure his insomnia as usually he didn’t regard it as something to be cured. He was also sceptical of legitimate medical remedies at best while the issue troubled him John thought he should at least be thankful Sherlock hadn’t resumed his old habits and resorted to illegal substances.

He remembered the phone in his hand and reached a hand down to Sherlock’s shoulder.

‘Sherlock’ he said again, shaking him firmly ‘Sherlock.’

A low groan omitted from somewhere deep in the other man’s chest and his eyes slowly opened, John saw a faint flicker of sleepy recognition as they locked onto his own and then a frown darkened his companion’s face.

‘Phone’ John said quickly holding it out.

‘Mycroft’ Sherlock scowled. ‘I was asleep’

‘I know. He knows. It wasn’t a discussion he was willing to have.’

Sherlock huffed and pulled himself to sitting. ‘I didn’t hear the phone.’

John held it out again and Sherlock took it.

‘Hello’ he said.

John hovered unsure whether to stay or go, if this was something to do with a case Sherlock would no doubt spring into action with a series of commands upon hanging up the phone. If it was some family issue, of which Sherlock was largely uninterested there would be much banging and crashing and no doubt cursing in John’s direction for waking him with such trivial matters. John settled for exiting but lurking in earshot near the doorway. His own reservations about eavesdropping long since eroded by Sherlock’s similar disregard for such matters.

‘Oh.’ Came Sherlock’s next reply. ‘I see.’

A lengthy pause.

‘Are you alright?’

John cocked an eyebrow at this remark, rarely did Sherlock enquire after anyone’s well being particularly not his brother.

‘Right.’ He continued. ‘I see. Fine.’

Another pause.

‘Satisfactory.’

He heard footsteps approaching the door.

‘Yes. Fine. I shall speak to you later today.’

A beep as the phone was silenced and Sherlock appeared in the doorway beside him.

‘Sherlock?’ John asked, no answer was offered only his phone pressed back into his hand as Sherlock breezed past him into the living room.

‘Sherlock?’ John repeated ‘What did he want?’

Sherlock spun around, his face a mask unreadable. ‘Nothing of consequence to you.’ He said an edge to his tone as he swept down upon his violin.

‘Sherlock.’ John said a warning in his tone. His flatmate turned back, John wasn’t the only one who’d had opportunity to become attuned to his flatmate’s mannerisms, and he knew Sherlock recognised the warning, he didn’t always respond but sometimes John got lucky.

‘It isn’t of importance John.’ He said voice levelled as he began to pluck at the strings. ‘You will be late if you don’t leave in the next three minutes.’

John regarded him for a moment, not believing him but weighing up whether waiting until Sherlock wanted to tell him was advisable. Sherlock began lazy strokes across the violin warming up. John nodded, more to himself.

‘Ok.’ He said ‘ You know where I’ll be.’ The implication, if you need me, didn’t need to be vocalised.

If Sherlock heard him he didn’t acknowledge it as John gathered his things and left Baker Street to the sounds of ferevrant violin playing.

When he returned that night there was silence.

John braced himself, silence in Baker street often pre-empted a storm. A literal explosion of whatever was brewing in the kitchen or Sherlock’s own explosion at the latest case of irritation, if there was silence it was waiting for something or something had already happened.

John pulled out his phone, no texts and thankfully no calls from Lestrade or hospitals, he’d insisted soon after moving in that his name but placed as Sherlock’s emergency contact which alleviate the anxiety that he wouldn’t be notified on the many occasions his friend managed to get hurt or in trouble or both, what it didn’t alleviate was the anxiety he would be called.

He typed out a text:

Back home. Where are you? Cooking should it interest. JW.

He put the phone back into his pocket and set about cooking, dull domesticity was occasionally welcome and as much as he’d sneer he knew Sherlock also appreciated the shared meals and evenings in. Something was troubling John about Sherlock’s behaviour earlier that day and he found himself checking the phone constantly for a sign of his return.

He didn’t have to wait long as it happened ten minutes after he sent the message he heard footsteps on the stairs, and moments later Sherlock had appeared in the living room.

His appearance was immaculate as ever, his coat which he hung carefully by the door covered a neat pressed shirt and expensive jeans. He looked slightly windswept while his face bore the too often mask of him being physically present but mentally elsewhere.

‘Sherlock?’ John framed it as both question and greeting, the other man glanced up as if noticing his presence for the first time, or at least registering it.

‘John.’

‘Food?’ John asked sensing any line of enquiry as to Sherlock’s day or well being would be fruitless.

‘Fine.’ Sherlock nodded.

‘You’re eating then?’ John asked surprised, although Sherlock ate fairly well between cases he also stopped eating when a black mood took hold. Given the phone call from Mycroft, the sleeping pills and his general distracted demeanour John had assumed the onset of one or the other.

‘Yes.’ His tone was even which was worrying given such so called ‘useless questioning’ would normally be met with disdain. 

‘Ok. Half an hour.’

Sherlock nodded and disappeared to his room. John busied himself with cooking and attempting to make the kitchen both sanitary and respectable. Precisely half an hour later Sherlock appeared.

‘Where are my-‘

‘Over there.’ John said gesturing to what he was now referring to as ‘Sherlock’s corner’ of the kitchen where everything not dangerous or particularly odorous was removed during his frequent tidying attempts. After a brief inspection of the Petri dishes in question Sherlock seemed satisfied and sat, awaiting dinner, John pushed notions of domesticity and his role in this relationship aside to be grateful for a chance to actually cook and eat at a normal time, as normal people did. Despite his love of this bizarre life the mundane creeping in for brief appearances was welcome. Even if mundane and normal were relative terms in this household. He served up two plates of a sausage pasta concoction, John’s recipe being a creative interpretation of the one Jamie Oliver managed to make look far more appealing.

They ate in silence for a while, dinner table talk in Baker Street could cover a range of, yes often escalating into debate or outright argument but to sit in silence came just as easily to them. John ate with the precision and speed of a man used to eating what he could when he could, Sherlock despite his healthier appetite between work and moods was always more delicate as in most things so John wasn’t surprised when he finished and Sherlock seemed to have barely touched his food. John sat for a few minutes content to pause then as usual got up an flicked the kettle on, Sherlock usually having finished his food in the time it took John to make tea for them both. When John turned back having made two mugs of tea he halted with a frown, while Sherlock was moving the food around his plate he seemed to have eaten little more.

‘It’s not the best I admit, but it is edible’ John commented setting down the mugs and trying not to be concerned. Sherlock not eating wasn’t uncommon, he’d also seen him pretend to eat while staking out a suspect when the need arose but he never tried to give the appearance of eating to John, he’d simply refuse and unless it seemed actual bodily harm was likely John tolerated it.

‘I’m not hungry.’ Sherlock stated simply and pushed his plate away. He drew the tea towards him and wrapped his long fingers around it. ‘Thank you.’

John furrowed his brow, honesty and thanks in the same breath were a worrying combination.

‘Sherlock?’ He questioned. ‘Is there-‘

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he shook his head unruly curls bouncing as he sprang to life and into the living room foraging in a pile of papers next to John’s chair.

‘Cats!’ he exclaimed

‘What?’ John asked

‘Cats, radioactive cats and AIDS experiments’ he threw more papers on the floor, ‘Your latest British Medical Journal’

Sherlock procured the magazine triumphantly and before John could draw breath had launched into a monologue on the flaws in the research and proposed areas of research connected to it, some of which worryingly he seemed to be suggesting take place in their kitchen. Once his initial diatribe was complete he allowed John to contribute, even conceded to debate as was his concession on medical topics where he acknowledged that John was not quite as idiotic as in other areas, that and weaponry and the inside workings of the British Army-a subject that seemed to hold a mysterious fascination for Sherlock, John reasoned because it was one bastion of society he had yet to successfully infiltrate in order to deduce. 

For the next few hours things returned to normal once their debate was exhausted-or at least John was- Sherlock retired to his corner of the living room to pour over some papers while John tapped slowly at his blog with one eye on the TV. John eventually found himself sucked into a crime drama that had Sherlock been listening he would have derided as ‘drivel’ and ‘pedestrian’ when it took a break for the ten o’clock news John got up to make tea calling to Sherlock when the cup he’d automatically made him was ready. Sherlock appeared behind him and nodded in thanks at the tea before walking past John into his room.

‘Sherlock?’ John asked, aware he was close to wearing out the other man’s name today.

‘Going to bed.’ Sherlock said simply.

‘It’s ten o’clock?’

‘Tired.’ Sherlock said simply and shuffled off towards his room. When John quietly cleared away his cup an hour later there was still a light on in Sherlock’s room. He thought about knocking but thought better of it, leaving Sherlock alone with whatever he was doing.

John was halfway out the door the next morning when Sherlock flounced into view, blue dressing gown billowing as he seemed to skid to a halt in the doorway.

‘Sherlock?’ John questioned.

‘You’re working today.’ As usual it wasn’t a question.

‘Yes. Covering at the’

‘Hammersmith surgery, the receptionist is a lesbian, you’re wasting your time. As you seem to have been with every woman you’ve approached lately John. You seem almost deliberately to be sabotaging relationships before they begin.’

‘Yes, great, thanks for that Sherlock.’ John ferreted in his pocket for his oyster card.

‘Back jeans pocket’

‘Alright’ John fished it out ‘Want to tell me what colour underwear I’m wearing while I’m at it?’

‘Blue.’ Sherlock blinked slowly as if waiting to say something more.

‘Thanks for that. Though given your previous comments you have seen more of my underwear than anyone else lately.’

Sherlock humphed to himself and continued to stare at John.

‘What do you want Sherlock? I have to go to work.’ Sometimes dealing with Sherlock was like dealing with a child.

‘You’ll be home. Later.’ Again it wasn’t a question.

‘You know I will.’ John snapped, the softened ‘Yes. 6 ish. Why?’

‘No reason.’

‘Alright’ John paused ‘Everything ok?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

Oh about a hundred reasons you could deduce in five seconds, John thought. ‘You just seem…’ what he thought? Like you have emotions again and it worries me? That’s your behaviour is more odd than usual? No, John looked at him. Sad, he seemed sad. ‘You seem a little out of sorts, even for you.’

‘No idea what you’re talking about.’ Sherlock whirled around towards the kitchen table ‘I’ll be working on my experiment all day, we may need a take away for dinner.’

And in a flash he was working, and it was an ordinary day, well ordinary for Baker Street as John tried to ignore the sound of what he was pretty sure was a minor explosion as he shut the door behind him.  

At 6.15 John was making his way through the front door struggling with groceries and take away as instructed. Mrs Hudson flapped into the hallway as he shut the door.

‘Ooh thank goodness you’re home’ she cooed, ‘There’s been terrible shouting coming from up there.’

John furrowed his brow and steeled himself for what unsuspecting member of the public Sherlock had upset in his absence until he heard

‘Sherlock you will listen to me!’

And his heart sank. Mycroft. Any interaction with the senior Holmes brother was likely to bring at best inconvenience and given the previous morning’s interaction and the shouting from on high, John didn’t hold out much hope for the curry he had in his hand being eaten at a reasonable hour.

‘You have no authority to tell me what to do.’ Sherlock was retorting as John began to climb the stairs.

‘Mummy would –‘ Mycroft interjected

‘Mycroft’ Sherlock almost growled a warning.

‘Listen to me Sherlock’ Mycroft was adopting that superior tone that made John’s hair stand on end and the desire to ram that infernal umbrella somewhere increase. ‘Given that-‘

‘Mycroft’

John recognised that tone as well and hurried the last few stairs to find Sherlock  nose to nose with his brother against the fireplace.

‘Alright alright boys’ John said wearily.

‘John stay out of this.’

‘Sherlock sit down.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘If you impale your brother with a fire iron then it will be my business!’ John dropped the bags on the floor and marched over to the brothers. Sherlock still refused to move ‘Sherlock.’ He said a warning tone clear and put a firm arm on his flatmate’s arm.

Sherlock glared at him and John tightened his grip. They both knew that John wasn’t likely to hurt him Sherlock also knew however couldn’t be sure he’d rule physical force out entirely-he had after all been a solider and one who was right now beginning to have a very bad day. Sherlock stepped back and disengaged himself from John, with a flourish of his arm flopping into his chair. Mycroft adjusted his suit and picked up the umbrella.

‘As you are being so unreasonable’ he said with disdain ‘I shall leave.’

Sherlock refused to look in the direction of his brother as he began to leave. Mycroft paused at the doorway, ‘Do what you will Sherlock but for once think what the consequences of your actions mean for others.’

And with that he was gone.

John retrieved the bags and took them into the kitchen. Leaving the take away in the bag he quickly stowed the milk and other perishables in the fridge then turned to face Sherlock.

‘Any time you want to tell me what’s going on. That would be great’

‘Doesn’t concern you.’

John folded his arms, ‘Oh but I think it does.’

‘Family things John. Doesn’t concern you.’

‘No Sherlock it does.’

‘No John it really doesn’t’

‘It bloody well does!’ John was surprised at the edge creeping into his voice ‘When your brother is so fond of using me in his little games, not to mention occasional kidnapping I feel I have a right to know if something is going on.’

Sherlock sighed and put down the violin. ‘A trivial family matter John and one that will be resolved very soon. I promise you it will not affect you.’ He walked into the kitchen and began to unpack the take away. ‘Indian, lovely. Plates?’

John complied, allowing a long pause before he spoke again softly this time. ‘It does though Sherlock.’

‘Hmm?’ he was unpacking the onion bahjis smelling them suspiciously.

‘Affect me.’

Sherlock pretended not to hear, spooning rice onto a plate

‘Because whatever it is has clearly affected you.’

Sherlock looked up and locked John’s eyes with his and for a moment they were having one of their silent conversations that said everything and nothing at once. Eventually Sherlock nodded and turned his attention back to the food.

‘Korma John really?’

‘There’s Jalfreezi for you, underneath.’

‘Ah yes.’ Sherlock methodically measured out their dinner as he would an experiment before even taking John’s through to the living room table. John followed, stunned into silence.  

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he stopped to check it

‘Keep an eye on him. MH.’

John sighed, since when did he do anything else.

As it turned out, once again Sherlock didn’t require much looking out for, he ate with John then continued to poke at whatever he was doing in the kitchen, since it didn’t seem to involve any further explosives John didn’t bother to ask. John replied to some blog comments, paid some bills and emailed Harry and a few other army friends. Later he settled in his chair with a book until his eyes grew heavy and he admitted defeat. Sherlock seemed to have lost interest in his experiment at this point and was rifling through one of his many piles of paper searching for or organising or who knew what.

The next day followed a similar pattern, he worked came home to find Sherlock messing about with experiments having clearly not left the house, they ate Sherlock retreated to his room and John did the same. He came to groggily at 3am, aware he’d been woken but not sure by what. Not a nightmare, good, not enough shock to be a loud noise so ruled out explosions or gunfire, also good. Then he heard it what could only be described as angry violin playing. Heaving a great sigh he pulled himself out of bed and down the stairs. Sherlock was pacing scratching at his violin like a man possessed. Johns stood in the living room and waited.

‘I couldn’t sleep’

‘And now neither can I.’

Sherlock moved to begin playing again

‘No.’ John commanded with enough authority to pause him bow in mid air. ‘Enough Sherlock you’ll have Mrs Hudson up here.’

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest

‘Then she’ll fuss and try and make you drink tea and she’ll be asking questions and up here for days.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and huffed out a breath. As much as he was fond of Mrs Hudson John also knew he was more fond of his own space when in a mood like this. He also knew Mrs Hudson was the only person Sherlock Holmes was fractionally scared of and he was willing to bet whatever was up with him this week he didn’t want to deal with her fussing trying to get it out of him as well.

‘Fine. Though she might be a cure for insomnia.’ He said petulantly and flopped onto the sofa

 ‘Since when was not sleeping an issue for you. I thought sleeping  was boring.’

‘It is. But occasionally necessary.’

John leaned on the doorframe and looked at Sherlock, he looked tired very tired his pale face was a shade whiter than usual and his eyes were darkened and red.

‘You haven’t got a case usually it’s a struggle to get you out of bed when you’re not working. And don’t get me started on healthy sleep patterns.’

‘Yes well sometimes the human body doesn’t cooperate does it _Doctor’_ Sherlock spat the last word in John’s direction. ‘Are you going to stand there all night?’

‘At this rate it’ll be time to get up soon anyway.’

 Sherlock didn’t answer, flopping back and pounding the sofa cushions.  

‘Drink?’ John asked.

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like a comparison to their landlady. John chose to ignore it, instead moving to the kitchen where he poured himself and Sherlock a healthy measure of whiskey and returned standing over Sherlock who had now turned his back resolutely ignoring him.

‘Oi.’ He poked his back with the glass and Sherlock turned, scowled but sat up and took the glass.

‘When did you last sleep?’ John asked sitting on the piece of sofa Sherlock’s feet had just vacated.

Sherlock took a long sip and frowned. ‘When you woke me up.’

John nodded, over 48 hours despite his flatmate’s erratic sleep patterns he clearly needed the rest now, he reached into his pocket and held out the small bottle of pills.

‘Here’

Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

‘Take them Sherlock you know they work.’

Sherlock softly grunted his agreement and frowned at John, then took the bottle opened it and took two out downing them swiftly with the remains of his drink.

‘Don’t make a habit of it. They’re pretty strong.’ John warned ‘Though on you…’ he let the thought hang for a moment before adding ‘I’d rather you take those-as long as you ask me.’

Sherlock didn’t speak but gave John a sideways glance to show that he’d heard.

‘Bed.’ John ordered finishing his drink and standing up ‘Before you fall asleep out here.’

Doctors orders he was good at, and sometimes even with Sherlock they worked. Obediently he got up and walked slowly to his room a quick glance over his shoulder before shutting the door and a nod at John told him enough. Wearily John trudged up the stairs to salvage what he could of the night’s sleep, reasoning he’d just given himself until lunchtime tomorrow-once Sherlock was initially knocked out fatigue should take over and keep him down for a while.

John had been right, at least he assumed that was what happened. Sherlock didn’t surface during the morning and by the time John returned early in the evening he was standing at the window, dressed for the first time in three days.

‘Alright?’ John said as he entered dropping his bag on the sofa.

Sherlock turned and looked at him, John could judge nothing from his face something about that unnerved him more than usual.

‘I need to tell you something.’

‘Ok.’ John frowned and perched himself on the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock inhaled and regarded John for a moment before looking down.

‘My father died. Monday morning. I’ll be leaving for a couple of days to.’ He exhaled sharply ‘Attend to things with Mycroft. He insists.’

Whatever John had been expecting that wasn’t it, he felt like he’d been hit with something hard and blunt. He struggled to form words.

‘Sher..I mean… I’m’

‘Spare yourself John, I’ll take your sympathies as read but really it isn’t necessary.’

‘But Sherlock your Dad!’ John couldn’t help himself.

‘John you know better than anyone I don’t process _emotions_ like most. And the death of my Father is no exception.’

John was still a little dumbstruck, living with Sherlock had given him capacity to deal with the unexpected but Sherlock himself remained the epitome of that term.

‘Is there a funeral?’

Sherlock nodded, retrieving his coat from it’s hook. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Would you like me to come?’ John reasoned he knew the answer.

‘No need.’ Sherlock shrugged into his coat.

‘I’d like to.’ John offered.

Sherlock looked at John for the first time and John noticed how tired he still looked, no less tired more beaten or defeated it as an unnerving look on the detective. ‘John trust me you don’t want to be there and it will serve no purpose. I will attend to these matters and return to Baker Street on Saturday and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.’

‘How on earth can you say that?’ John spat ‘How can you simply forget that your father has died Sherlock? You need to....I don’t know grieve?! It’s not normal to just forget it ever happened’

‘John, as you have repeatedly pointed out since we’ve been living together I don’t behave like normal people. Now I have to go.’

He strode out leaving John to sit and stare blankly at the space where he’d been and wonder once again how such a person came to be. Shaking his head he pulled out his phone and angrily tapped a text to Mycroft.

‘He told me. He’s gone. Suggest you do your best to find him. JW.’

Seconds later a text came back

‘We’ll handle this ourselves. Don’t concern yourself John. MH’

John was fuming he was ready to hunt down Mycroft Holmes and wring his neck, when his phone buzzed again

‘Forgive me. In this case I differ from my brother in wearing my emotions rather close to the surface. MH.’

John sighed. Despite his irritation at Mycroft he knew that he cared.

‘He doesn’t want me around. Trusting you on this one. JW.’

He sighed again and text once more

‘But you know where I am. My sympathies. JW.

The reply came simply

Thank you. MH

John sighed. The Holmes brothers dealing with something as pedestrian as death of a relative, it was never going to be easy.  

 


	2. Fear no more the lightning flash

John didn’t expect to hear from Sherlock or Mycroft that night but nonetheless he spent a restless night one ear trained to his phone even in sleep just in case. Repeated texts to Sherlock of course went unanswered. Finally at 8 am his phone chirped, number withheld. He snatched it up.

‘Hello?’

‘John’ Mycroft’s velvety and yet icy tones carried into his ear.

‘Mycroft.’ John responded. ‘Is there any point in asking you where your brother is?’

‘In actual fact yes.’ Mycroft answered ‘He is with me.’

‘Right, well nice of him to answer his phone.’

‘Quite.’ Mycroft mused, ‘You’re likely to forgive him John. I need you here-he does.’

‘What’s wrong?’ John asked a note of panic creeping into his voice.

‘There is no danger John, but he does need you.’

‘Mycroft he made it quite clear he didn’t want me there.’

‘My car will be there for you in one hour. Adequate time to prepare I trust? You weren’t working at the clinic today, Sarah cancelled your shift.’

‘Mycroft! I swear I will-‘

‘John I wouldn’t ask, but as I say, he needs you.’ The emphasis Mycroft placed on the _you_ pulled at something in John.

The car pulled to a stop somewhere in West London and Mycroft’s assistant nodded to him. Inside the Church was almost full with pews full of elderly well dressed ladies and gentleman as well as a mix of men and women John’s age, some with younger generations in tow. He glanced around, eyes scanning the details as he’d become honed to do, a few traces of family resemblance scattered in the front pews-angular faces and prominent noses and a general air of superiority. He chastised himself for that final thought, inappropriate John. He settled on the end of a pew about halfway down the church nodded to the elderly gentleman in a cravat next to him, the man opened his mouth to speak but was cut short by the sound of the organ booming into life with a dark sombre note that reverberated off the walls.

John stood with the congregation and bowed his head he became aware of movement behind him but didn’t turn to look. Only when the procession was almost level did he turn his head. A small group were moving down the aisle towards him. A simple coffin with a small wreath of carnations atop it was being carried by four unfamiliar men. Undertakers John deduced, identical suits, identical blank expression of professional reserve. Following them the Priest, cut from the identical cloth of middle aged Church of England priests the length of the country, somehow John had expected more-a Bishop at least. As the Priest moved forward clearing the view John’s stomach lurched. Sherlock and Mycroft walking side by side, almost identical masks devoid of emotion etched on their faces, which eerily had never borne such familiarity.

Sherlock lifted his head at the exact moment John’s gaze fell on him and their eyes locked. John’s body went cold, as cold and lifeless as Sherlock’s gaze. As quickly as that ran through him his stomach lurched as a moment of sheer pain, of almost panic flash in Sherlock’s eyes, before he was gone again, buoyed forward by the painfully slow procession.

The coffin was set and the mourners in place, Mycroft and Sherlock occupying the front row with the miscellaneous, but judging by their respective profiles and demeanours, relatives who shared the space. The Priest took his position and welcomed the congregation.  Mycroft turned to the woman next to him and laid a hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘Mummy’ John deduced, improper of her to follow the procession give what Sherlock had told him about his parents’ marriage, or rather let slip in a fit of showing off. Sherlock he noticed didn’t look at his mother, he didn’t look at anyone for even with only the back of his head in view John could tell he was staring straight ahead at a fixed point on the floor neither seeing nor hearing anything or anyone around him. Something about that felt like a knife wrenching in John’s chest.

John felt he should be listening, giving his respects to the man although he didn’t know him. He reasoned even that he had reason to be thankful to this unknown man. Instead his eyes remained fixed on the mass of dark curls several pews in front, unmoving and fixed although he couldn’t see he knew exactly the cold mask Sherlock’s face was fixed into. As the priest moved through hymns and prayers Sherlock remained unmoving. He went through the motions of standing and sitting but steadfastly refused to bow his head with the congregation. John felt himself following suit, not out of any concession to atheism-agnosticism was more his predilection anyway despite a staunch Church of England upbringing that meant the hymns and prayers and ritual were familiar to him, John found himself fixing his gaze on the back of his friend’s head as a show of solidarity. Even if he could neither see it or appreciate it if he could.

Mycroft stood to give the eulogy, full of the pomp and circumstance present in every move the man made, but John had to concede a touching tribute. Mycroft talked of his father with a soft reverence that despite the formality and grandeur of the life experiences he was describing-and John would expect nothing less from the Holmes family there was underneath it all both affection and pain that if not endeared John to Mycroft, softened his opinion somewhat.

‘My father did many remarkable things in his lifetime.’ Mycroft concluded ‘He also offered himself as a father and role model to me and my brother Sherlock.’ He paused ‘And we’ he gave a pointed look at his brother who still didn’t move or show any indication he had heard his name spoken ‘Are very grateful. Sherlock will now deliver a reading at our father’s request.’

John raised an eyebrow in surprise and held his breath as Sherlock rose and crossed with his brother; Mycroft took hold of his younger sibling’s elbow and held him still for a second, their gaze fixed. It wasn’t a gesture of support or affection, but Sherlock facing away from him John could only catch Mycroft’s look-the stern warning he’d seen many times but fleshed at the edges by a question ‘Can you do this?’ he seemed to ask. John smiled as he recognised a shift that could only signal Sherlock’s silent unseen response ‘Of course I can brother now let me go’ Mycroft softened with only a faction of his usual glare and released his brother to speak.

For the first time John could see Sherlock’s face, and though he’d become more of an expert in reading his flatmate’s expressions and mood-more than Sherlock would care to admit in fact-he didn’t know how to read this. To most his friend’s expression would appear and impassive mask of calm, perhaps one could infer trying to hide the deeper pain beneath. John looked at his eyes and suppressed the wave of cold again, they were empty emotionless. Sherlock Holmes was of course the master of emotional control, of appearing one way when he meant another either for greater purpose or amusement. He also didn’t feel emotions like, well John reasoned normal people, mainly because Sherlock Holmes was not normal. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel-John had seen excitement in those eyes at the thrill of a chase, he’d seen happiness at a particularly smart deduction, he’d seen blissful contentment when he played the violin when he thought John wasn’t looking-or perhaps when he knew he was. He’d seen anger and frustration and he’d seen hurt, he’d even possibly seen something Sherlock would never admit to quite recently with the case of The Woman. Sherlock Holmes did and could feel emotions despite being a master of them and the emptiness in those glass-like eyes chilled John.

‘Good Morning’ Sherlock began his familiar voice sounding heavy with the weight of the room, ‘My brother has offered you an accurate if edited version of our father’s life.’ He sent a cursory glance to his brother and he froze for a moment. John leaned to a point where he could see Mycroft more clearly, the older Holmes had Sherlock fixed in his gaze and nodded barely perceivable. Sherlock returned the gesture and swallowed. ‘Those of you who know-knew’ he corrected and closed his eyes, barely more than an extended blink but enough of a tell to John that something was on the verge of unravelling; he held is breath terrified without really knowing why. Sherlock looked at his brother again, and continued to speak addressing only Mycroft now ‘There is of course much more to any person than we can determine in such an artificial summary as this. And I am sure you will all entertain yourselves with presenting to each other greatly inflated tales of the man who we are hear to bury today. Such is our custom to elevate the dead to positions they never would achieve during life. If this assists your grieving processes then feel free to indulge.’

John smiled a little, the bluntness the realism of Sherlock Holmes. The man he knew returned momentarily. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, a tiny subtle movement unnoticed by all but John, Sherlock and John smiled again, Mummy. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and continued.

‘It is also the custom to indulge the dead at their funeral, although of course they no not whether we do any of the things they request.’

Another tap of the umbrella.

‘My father requested this be read on the event of his death.’ Sherlock said with a weary slightly disdainful air, and looked at his brother again some kind of conversation John couldn’t perceive passed between them again Sherlock clearly losing this debate, angry defeat flashed in his eyes followed by something else entirely as he looked at the paper in front of him. He inhaled deeply and looked up ‘He requested that this be read by me’ Sherlock Paused a moment before beginning to read;

‘ Fear no more the heat o' the sun,  
Nor the furious winters rages;  
Thou thy worldly task hast done,  
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;  
Golden lads and girls all must,  
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,  
Thou art past the tyrants stoke;  
Care no more to clothe and eat;  
To thee the reed is as the oak;  
The sceptre, learning, physic, must  
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,  
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;  
Fear not slander, censure rash;  
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan;  
All lovers young, all lovers must  
Consign to thee, and come to dust.’

He read with the perfect intonation and understanding of the source, John recognised it was Shakespeare if not the play, or sonnet. He really had no idea. He saw Sherlock deliver it with the expertise of an actor delivering well worn lines, perfectly understood but long devoid of emotion. To the untrained ear they sounded heartfelt and meaningful, if that’s what you wanted to hear. He’d looked down at the page for most of the reading and John had narrowed his eyes in confusion, Sherlock could memorise a passage such as that within minutes if he so chose, instead he chose to hide his gaze in the words. When he finished he gave a curt nod and walked back to his seat glancing neither right or left as he sat.

The Priest summed up swiftly, final prayers and a hymn John could only hum along to. Sherlock remained as before unmoving in his pew. Finally after lengthy instructions about the burial to follow the procession began to make its way out. John fixed his eyes to the ground as they approached feeling suddenly self conscious; he glanced up quickly and furtively just as Sherlock drew level with him. Their eyes locked and John tried to communicate something, anything with his friend. Sherlock’s eyes fixed on his own and he felt another jolt run through his body as something slipped in the empty eyes and for a second John saw etched there a pure white hot pain laced with fear, John inhaled and fought the urge to shout or run to Sherlock, to do or say something anything. And he blinked again and it was gone and in its place he fixed John with an angry glare.

Outside there suddenly seemed far too many people and John couldn’t get anywhere near Sherlock, he tried politely pushing his way through the crowd of mourners gathered at the Church entrance chatting with no intention of moving it seemed. Finally he broke through the crowd in time to see Sherlock disappear into the back of a car. He sighed, knowing it would be difficult to get near him again at the cemetery he glanced around for a taxi. Naturally Mycroft’s car pulled up alongside just as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Car will bring you here. I’ll try and keep him afterwards. MH.

John scowled despite himself and the situation he found himself suppressing a slight pang of jealousy whenever Mycroft read Sherlock’s needs or dare he say emotions as readily as John. He couldn’t help but think of that as his job now. He slid into the car, with no more than a nod to Mycroft’s assistant he stared out of the window and tried to plan his next move.

The crowd at the burial was somewhat dispersed from that at the Church, but still a small crowd had managed to gather when John arrived. He soon spotted Mycroft and Sherlock standing with Mummy-John cursed himself for never finding out her name, it seemed highly inappropriate to refer to her as that-at the graveside. Mycroft employing the Holmesian sixth sense, or perhaps just feeling his phone buzz with a text alert in his pocket looked up as he approached and nodded to him, and then to Sherlock at his right. John frowned then understood as Mycroft moved behind his brother and positioned himself at his mother’s side, a ruse of whispering in ear and no doubt easily concealed by being the brother most likely to provide comfort should she need it as they buried her husband.

Assured now of his role John strode more confidently across the damp grass, weaving his way through the loose crowd he placed himself firmly at Sherlock’s side, he didn’t look at his flatmate merely stood staring straight ahead just as Sherlock was doing. He felt eyes on top of his head but refused to glance in their direction. He was here, he was staying and he knew as long as he didn’t speak Sherlock could find no reason to fuss about it, he also knew with Mycroft on the other side of him he couldn’t go anywhere. If circumstances had been different John might have smiled that although through a joint effort, he had momentarily outsmarted Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had little time to consider his options as the priest began to speak once more moving through the motions of the service which mercifully was brief, Sherlock to his right showed little sign of listening his however his eyes were now fixed on the coffin and he looked for the first time as though he were actually seeing what was in front of him. The Priest finishing his prayers and readings invited the family to throw earth on the coffin and John braced himself he had no reference for how Sherlock might react to this-pathetic ritual he’d dismiss it as usually but the power of Mycroft and Mummy to his right and that look on his face, John was wary.

Mummy went first pausing over the open grave in a moment of reflection, her emotions were etched over her face, sorrow and regret and it seemed to John a little shame, there was also a softness in her that John had so rarely seen in his friend, he found himself wishing he had met their father if only to try and complete some of the puzzle. Mycroft stepped up to his mother and took her arm, guiding her gently back to the crowd before stepping forward himself, he quickly threw some earth down wards and muttered something to himself, or to his father before giving a curt nod and turning around. Simple and controlled but John noticed he avoided his Mother’s eye as he turned keeping his gaze fixed on his immaculate shoes, now sullied with dirt. When he returned to the crowd he looked at his brother John took this as a cue to look as well.

Sherlock was frozen like a rabbit in headlights fear and uncertainty flashed across his face almost imperceptibly John saw Mycroft catch it to and with a nod he deferred to John.

‘Sherlock’ John said softly and place a hand gently this time on the other man’s elbow and took a step forward. It was an indication of Sherlock’s current mental state that he complied almost like a trained dog, stepping forward in step with John and stood at the graveside, he took a breath and John felt him lean into the grip. Certain Sherlock wasn’t aware he’d done so he tightened his hold not physically holding Sherlock up but a reassurance he could if he needed it.  Sherlock bent down and picked up a handful of dirt, looking at it as if he didn’t know what it was he held it there for a long time staring. John squeezed his arm.

‘Sherlock’ he said again softly.

He saw Sherlock tighten his grip on the earth then throw it downwards into the hole before him. As swiftly as he’d done so he was turning on his heel and striding, almost running away from the graveside, after a brief moment to regain his faculties John was striding after him, he didn’t speak he didn’t call his name again he just followed, far enough away that Sherlock couldn’t object but close enough that he knew John was there. They reached the edge of the cemetery before Sherlock stopped and whirled around to face John.

‘Leave me alone.’ He all but snarled

‘Not a chance.’ John folded his arms across his chest and faced Sherlock.

Sherlock took a step to the side, John stepped with him. He stepped back, John followed. Sherlock stopped visibly fuming debating his next move. He could just walk away if he chose, John wasn’t likely to tackle him to the ground, however he was resolved to not let him get away again.

‘Get back there Sherlock.’ John offered

‘Why?’ he stopped relenting for a moment holding John in his gaze.

‘Because it’s what you do. For your Mother for your Brother’ Sherlock snorted ‘Because you need to.’

‘I do not need to do anything, not for my family’ Sherlock all but spat that word ‘Nor do I need to do so for myself. What purpose does all this ritual serve John? Really? The dead don’t know what we’re doing so why do we bother?’

John chuckled slightly in spite of himself Sherlock was genuinely asking him genuinely confused. ‘For the living Sherlock, those of us left behind.  Because we need to grieve to say goodbye.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Sherlock just because that’s what you do when someone you love dies. It helps you to move on.’

‘I have moved on.’ Sherlock said simply ‘He is no longer alive, this has changed my life in the minor way in which it affects me and I’ve adjusted’

‘Adjusted? Sherlock you don’t just adjust like that!’ John was growing frustrated now

‘I do. I have’

‘Sherlock, this-that’ he gestured back to the graveside knowing Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about ‘That is not moving on.’ He paused ‘Look you’re upset, you’ve just buried your father, it’s ok to feel something you know.’

Sherlock paused, he seemed to be debating something again John frowned at him, no he knew that look Sherlock was debating whether to tell him something.

‘What?’ he asked ‘Tell me. Whatever it is you’re debating in that head of yours’

Sherlock’s frown deepened and he exhaled ‘I don’t.’

John shook his head ‘Don’t what?’

‘Feel anything’

John all but rolled his eyes ‘Jesus, I know I get it, you don’t process emotions you don’t do feelings, you shut them off delete them I get it. But just for once, just for your sake I don’t know for your brother’s sake, for your mothers can you just feel something like a normal person?’

‘No!’

‘And why the hell not?’

‘Because I hated him!’

John was stunned into silence. Whatever he’d been expecting it wasn’t that.

Sherlock smirked ‘Well at least I feel something. Isn’t that what you wanted.’ He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and breezed past John striding across the grass once more. John hesitated only a moment and followed. Sherlock stopped suddenly and looked at him. John looked back. Sherlock regarded him a moment longer and turned again continuing across the grass, John following a few steps behind.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reading Sherlock gives, and the slightly pretentious title, is from Cymbeline, no deeper meaning than the words seemed to fit the senitment of Holmes jnr and snr at this point.
> 
> Chapter 3 will be forthcoming...soonish.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is Sherlock dealing with the big matters that affect us all. I'd be lying if I wasn't using this to project some of my own experience-some of Sherlock's lines came out of my own mouth. But I also wanted to see how this strange and complex character deals with the things that happen to us all.


End file.
